My latest story has been the product of perspiration rather than inspiration. I'm slogging on with my self-set challenge to enter a competition a month and my latest was August's Love Story (with a deadline in September - best not ask, I think).
I'm not feeling loved up at the moment, so it was a feat to think up a love story at all. This was, however, the whole point of my challenge - to write things I didn't FEEL like writing; to force myself to produce in a way I don't usually. I had to cheat slightly and took Rapunzel, one of my favourite (and quite dark) fairy stories as inspiration. It didn't flow; it hiccuped along and I must have written eight drafts, as the deadline raced towards me. There were several times I felt like giving up, and times when plot jams looked impossible to sort out. But I plodded on, and in the end I was quite proud of what I'd achieved.
I'm not sure the story is great - I'm fairly sure when I next look it over it will horrify me. But I was pleased this morning, and when I hit 'send', with only two days to spare, the sense of achievement was more than I have felt for any other story this year. I suppose it has been such an effort, the achievement is proportionally impressive.
I'm especially proud of myself for keeping a promise to myself, to write this story, despite all the excuses (many of which are quite plausible) I could have made. I'm proud of my determination to write...and I'll look back to this high moment next time I'm cringing over a rejection.